It's the Great Pumpkin Spice Conspiracy, John Munch!
by sidewinder
Summary: John Munch could smell conspiracy at a five-year-old's lemonade stand. He was also quite certain he smelled one brewing at his local Starbucks.


_One Monday, in early October..._

"Morning, John," Olivia announced in a voice far too cheery for this early in the day.

"It is indeed a morning," John confirmed. He hung up his coat and hat, then headed to the coffee station. He'd had his first cup at home, and now was time for some tea—a taste of civilization before dealing with whatever barbarism would cross his desk today. As he filled his mug with hot water and selected a packet of English Breakfast, he eyed a suspicious new item amidst the various sweeteners and other coffee accoutrements. "The hell is this?" he asked, picking up and eyeing the orange bottle.

"Pumpkin spice creamer," Olivia explained, coming over to join him. She refilled her own mug with coffee, then helped herself to a generous pour of the creamer for her brew. "Have you tried it yet? It's delicious."

"No, thank you," John replied. "And no offense, but who would want their coffee to taste like pumpkin, anyway?"

"It's pumpkin _spice_ flavor, not actual pumpkin. You know—cinnamon, clove, ginger, nutmeg..."

"But why call it pumpkin when..." John started, then shook his head. "No, never mind." Some things weren't worth attempting to understand in a logical fashion. Particularly not when he was still only half-awake. He would stick to a little sugar and plain _, real_ cream for his tea.

Fin then joined him to prepare his own cup of coffee. They grunted a monosyllabic greeting at each other. John raised an eyebrow to half-mast as Fin, like Olivia, went right for the "spice" flavored creamer.

"What? It's kinda good for a change," Fin defended himself.

"Am I surrounded by mindless sheeple here? Everyone's got to jump on something merely because it's new?"

"It's a fucking cup of coffee, John. Get a grip."

Munch sighed and took his tea back to his desk. He supposed Fin was right; it was probably nothing to get agitated about in the grand scheme of things.

Probably.

* * *

Another October. Another early morning rushing out of the precinct on a call.

"I'm driving," Fin said.

"As always." John raised no objections to that, as he got in the passenger side of the police sedan. He did, however, make a face as he took a whiff of the cloying artificial scent inside the car.

"What's your problem?" Fin asked.

"Smells like a bakery in here," John said.

"New air freshener." Fin pointed at the little orange pumpkin cut-out, dangling from the windshield.

John could barely keep from groaning in dismay. "You're kidding. It's not enough they have to put that pumpkin crap in every food and drink item this time of year. Now we can't even escape it in the sanctuary of our motor vehicles?"

"Chill out, man. With all the gross-smelling shit you eat in the car all the time, I need somethin' to cover it up."

"There's definitely a cover-up of some kind going on," John agreed.

"Please don't tell me," Fin insisted, backing out of the parking space and heading for the exit.

"Fine." But as every Autumn became more and more dominated by pumpkin spice products, John was convinced it had to be some kind of conspiracy.

He just couldn't figure out what it was quite yet.

* * *

It only seemed to get worse, every year. Every coffee shop smelled of the stuff the moment he walked in the door. Every home or apartment they entered while on a case gave off the same sickening aroma via air fresheners or candles.

Pumpkin spice _everything_ flooded the delis and supermarkets. Pumpkin spice doughnuts, muffins, cream cheese...even cookies and M&Ms. "Honestly, though, does the world really need this?" John exclaimed, holding up a pumpkin spice deodorant. "What's next: pumpkin spice toothpaste? Condoms? When will this madness end?"

"Will you knock it off already?" Fin tried to hush him and drag him out of the drug store aisle. "We've got a body to look at."

"Fine." They'd caught a call about a sales clerk found dead—and looking to be the victim of a sexual assault—in a CVS employee break room. "But you know this insanity is all part of the government's stealth methods to monitor the health of the nation's economy, leading up to the so-called 'holiday season'."

"What are you going off about now?"

"Think about it: the Christmas shopping period is so vital to this consumerist society that F.D.R. changed the date of Thanksgiving just to give people more time to shop between then and Christmas. And now the willingness of people to buy anything with a 'pumpkin spice' label on it in the Fall is a perfect early predictor on how those needless gift purchases will go."

"That's crazy."

"Fine. Keep ignoring the truth that's right there in front of your eyes, my friend." They approached the break room where Dr. Warner was already on scene, examining the body. John scanned the surroundings, his eyes landing on the items on the communal table where their victim appeared to have been sitting before her attack. A box of pumpkin spice Tastykakes sat open before them, one half-eaten and dropped on the table as if in surprise.

"Can you imagine _that_ being the last food you choked down before meeting a bloody demise?" John mused.

"Hey, my kids love those things," Warner said, looking up at the detectives. "Thanks for reminding me, I need to pick up a box to take home once I'm done here."

John sighed and Fin shot him a threatening glare, daring him to utter another word.

* * *

She was easy to spot, sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park, her silver-blonde curly hair blowing in the October breeze. John offered a slight nod hello as he sat down beside her, trying to gauge her current state of mind.

That had never been easy.

"Are you sure no one followed you?" she asked, casting a furtive glance at him.

"Yes, Gwen, I'm sure," he told her. For months she'd refused to speak to him at all, after the whole Peter Harrison business, but now she had been the one to reach out to him and ask for his help. And no matter what had gone on between them, he still felt a certain obligation to keeping an eye on her. "Though I am surprised you suggested we meet here instead of our usual...secure location." The Overthrow Bookstore had always been her preferred rendezvous.

"Oh well. You know." She shrugged, fidgeting with nervous energy. "But then again, maybe you don't. Things aren't safe there any longer."

"They aren't?"

"No! No, John, not at all. Because they're part of the problem. The...pumpkin spice problem."

John blinked. "You wanted to see me today because of...pumpkin spice."

"It's everywhere, John. Haven't you noticed? More and more, every year. It's...insidious. _Dangerous._ I know you don't hang around on the old message boards these days, but we have an entire sub-forum devoted to it. At least, we _did,_ until _they_ made us shut it down."

"Which 'they', Gwen?"

"The government spice cabal, of course." She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, leaning in closer as if afraid anyone might be listening in. "I've seen the data. They're putting stuff _in_ the spice. Mind control substances. Addictive chemicals. That's why people can't get enough of it. They're brainwashing the population through lattes and non-dairy creamer!"

John only nodded and struggled to maintain a calm demeanor. He put a hand on Gwen's thigh and hoped his touch would reassure her. "Of course," he said. "It all makes sense now."

"Doesn't it? I had to warn you. I know you might not be able to do anything directly about it, but I had to alert you to the growing threat. Some of us need to be ready to lead the resistance when the time comes."

"Understood."

"You should read up on the information that's out there already. As I said, they shut the board down but..." She paused to reach into her voluminous purse. Then, with a shaky hand, she pulled out a small key ring flash drive and slid it under his fingers, against her thigh. "I saved everything I could for you, to see for yourself."

He squeezed her hand, taking hold of the flash drive and then slipping it into his own pants pocket. "Thank you. I should get going now."

"Yes, you should. Don't let them catch us speaking together for too long. You know they have eyes everywhere."

"Take care of yourself, Gwen."

John stood with a sigh and headed off, not sparing a look back in her direction. The breeze kicked up, scattering fallen leaves about the park. It was growing colder now, and he felt weary, weighed down by Gwen's words and demeanor.

Was that how he sounded to his own friends and co-workers, sometimes? There was a fine line between healthy suspicion and extreme paranoia, a line which Gwen had crossed long ago.

John had vowed to never join her on that other side.

After leaving the park, he headed straight for the nearest coffee house. A Starbucks, naturally, because they were everywhere. And the best place to go right now to put an end to this business. He queued up in line, and when it was finally his turn the barista asked him, "Yes, sir, what can I get for you today?"

"Venti pumpkin spice latte," he ordered, an admission of defeat. "And I don't suppose there's any way to make that any _extra_ , you know...pumpkin spice-y?" If he was going to give in after all these years of protest, he might as well go all out.

"A second pump of our pumpkin spice flavor is no extra charge!" she said cheerily.

"Go for it," he agreed, handing over his money and giving "Elliot" as his name.

For he would admit defeat on _one_ thing. But damned if he was going to give up his privacy for an overpriced cup of coffee.


End file.
